


When You Leave My Colours Fade to Gray

by forgettingthedetails



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Cutting, Denial, Depression, Reichenbach Feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-21
Updated: 2012-11-21
Packaged: 2017-11-19 04:28:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/569091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgettingthedetails/pseuds/forgettingthedetails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Often times, John Watson would simply sit on the roof of St.Barts Hospital, and think.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Leave My Colours Fade to Gray

               Often times, John Watson would simply sit on the roof of St.Barts Hospital, and think. For hours on end, he would sit there, staring at the clouds, or trying to catch a glimpse of the stars which were currently being out shined by the hectic lights of London, a city that never seemed to rest. John Watson would often find himself loosing track of time, while sitting on the rim of that old building, dangling his feet over the 60 foot drop, staring at the ground below and wondering how it would feel to jump off. John imagined it a lot, jumping that is. Taking a swan dive into a pool of concrete. He imagined, that in those few seconds of falling, everything would slow down. People say when you’re petrified, time slows down. It would be like soaring, swimming through air, the wind singing his fate into his ears, and pushing his hair out of his face until-

Well he didn’t usually think about the ‘until‘.

               John, was not religious. Yes, he grew up in a family of Christians, but something changed when his sister became an alcoholic. He prayed, every night, for hours. He cried to god, begging for her to be strong, but to no avail. That was when John gave up on deities, and he never looked back. Because of his lack of religion, John didn’t know what to think of the after life, if there was one.

               With a sigh, the dirty blond haired man stood up, walking along the edge before jumping onto the stone covered platform of the roof, and through the door to the seemingly endless flight of stairs. He worked in the very hospital, some time ago. He was on a leave of absence, a mourning period, for the death of his flat mate, Sherlock Holmes. It had only been 2 months since Sherlock stood on the edge of this very building.

_‘This phone call it’s ,uh. it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.’_

                His black coat billowing in the wind, and his long, pale figure shaking. Had he been depressed their entire relationship? He was amazing at hiding it, John didn’t notice. Not remotely. God, why was he such an idiot? John kept walking, looking straight ahead as he swiftly made his way down the 4th flight of stairs so far. 4 more to go.

_“It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.”_

                 No, he had to stop thinking about this. This wasn’t okay, not here anyway. He had to get home. Lately, John had been seeking solitude out more. The man couldn’t pry himself away from 221B Baker Street, though the pain it caused him; seeing Mrs.Hudson in shambles, cleaning everything, making sure everything was the way Sherlock had left it, and refusing to get rid of his blasted skull. Everyone was affected by the death of Sherlock Holmes, even those who weren’t supposed to be alive.

                   John had seen Irene at his grave, at least four times now. The first, she was simply standing reading the grave, staring at it. The dominatrix was attempting to figure out how he could have gotten out of this, if there was any possible way the detective was still alive. She stood there for a while before John finally approached her and told her what happened. “I know, I read it in the papers. I just- he is too brilliant for this to be true. He would never do this.”. Her second visit, was simply to set down some flowers. The third, John witnessed her crying. The final time he witnessed her visit, Irene was sitting in front of the grave, cross legged on the dirt, and pulling a number of sticky notes off of their pad and sticking them onto Sherlocks marble slab. Scrawled in purple pen, was a series of different things. ‘I miss you, let’s have dinner.’ ‘I don’t believe you’re dead, let’s discuss over dinner?’ ‘Please don’t be gone.’ and finally, ‘I think I love you, let’s have dinner.’. Pink lipstick stains were also left around his name. Sherlock Holmes. What a glorious name it was.

                  John visited the grave as much as he could handle. Which was, to his surprise, once a day. Like most people mourning their best friend, he spoke to his grave. John told Sherlock about his day, how hard things were, sometimes he would tell Sherlock stories. He told him about his childhood, having divorced parents and belonging to a low income family. He told his best friend about Harry’s alcoholism since the age of 15, he told him about Afghanistan and seeing his friends die. John felt like he owed Sherlock that much. They had been living together, for what, almost a year now, and they had NEVER discussed anything even remotely sensitive. John didn’t even know where Sherlock grew up.

                    John waved his hand, pulling over a taxi like he did everyday. It was about 11 in the evening, the last time the doctor had eaten was this morning, he had a cuppa and a slice of toast. That is all he had eaten in over 12 hours, yet he wasn’t even hungry. The man didn’t bother pondering the not-so-abnormal occurrence. ‘Greif’ he told himself. It must be.

                     John handed the taxi driver the 15 pounds that he owed, and stepped out of the cab. 221 Baker Street stood in front of him, the knocker on the door still rusted, and the door knob still obviously pried at. So much had happened here in those 8 months, no one would believe him. He had helped solve murders, he had met some of the smartest people he had ever encountered. All of them led back to this black door on some little unknown street in the centre of London.

                   John walked lazily up the stairs, slouching, before proceeding into the safety of his flat. Throughout these months without Sherlock, his flat had always been somewhere he felt safe. Where he could be alone. John began sleeping in Sherlock’s bed after the loss, it ‘helped him realize that he was gone’. No one believes him, of course.

                He was greeted by nothing but silence when walking into the flat. Like every other day, he simply went over to the chair he sat in everyday, and turned on the tele, watching the same shitty sitcom he did everyday. There was this pounding welling in his chest though, every time he sat down in the chair, moving the violin and bow to the side table, along with the various sheets and notebooks full of Sherlocks compositions. It was hard for him to deal with, his best friend being gone. But today, it was unbearable.

_“Goodbye, John”_

The way his voice was quivering, yet it sounded so forceful.

               No John, pull it together. You were a doctor, you have made it this far, you can keep pushing. So yet again, you force your eyes upon the screen, trying to observe Doctor Sexy M.D. operating on his own daughter. God, this was so trivial, but it was better than nothing.

A cold shower might help.

               He quickly stood up, placing the violin gently back in its place on the chair, and proceeding to the bathroom. Stripping off his jumper and jeans, as well as his undergarments. Without hesitation he waltzed into the cool shower, standing for what felt like an eternity, but was only a couple minutes, before falling to his knees. He felt a sob emerge from the back of his throat, straining to come out, but he wouldn’t let it, he simple started shaking, his hands cradling his forehead now before finally releasing the sound.

               Like a roar it emerged, shaky and childlike, winding down ever so slowly. John didn’t like the sound of it, but he didn’t have to time to ponder it before he was sobbing, inhaling deeply while liquid pain formed in his eyes and drifted down his cheeks.

              He had been so good for how many days? Nearly 6, 6 days without crying, but now it was all coming out at once, and stronger than it ever had. The cool water poured down his back, uninvited, and irritate him. Tears still in his eyes, Doctor John Watson stood, turning off the water and stumbling onto the tile floor of the bathroom, of course proceeding to slip and fall, hitting his head on the marble surface of the counter.

                But once he fell to the floor, on all fours, he didn’t bother to stand, instead he sobbed to the ground, letting his tears hit the already wet surface. The fan was on, and John sincerely hoped it drowned out the sound of his sobs, because they were incredibly loud, unrestrained, and cracking. The last thing Mrs.Hudson needed was more grief knowing John was so miserable.

                 Carefully, John switched to his knees, leaning against the wall behind him, feeling the cool surface, not totally different than the feeling of water grazing his bare back. But a newfound need started developing in his chest, he needed to get his mind off of this, distract him from the pain inside. Maybe he could redirect it. Better out than in.

                  John fumbled to the drawers in front of him, searching recklessly until he found his razor, the one he constantly used to shave in the morning. 5 bladed, it could spare one, for the greater good, John thought. Fiddling through tattered vision, he pressed against the back of one with his thumb, hearing the clang of metal as it hit the surface of the washroom floors, it was an unfamiliar sound, save for the times he dropped a fork on the ground, but it was music to his ears.

_You’re a doctor, you know what could happen._

                 Yet, he continued, picking up the blade, and pressing it to the nape of his arm. Not very hard, yet, blood welled in small dots, clustering until there was enough of the red liquid to form a stream down and onto the floor of the bathroom.

**Shit**

                   Yet, though, he didn’t stop. The doctor pushed in the blade deeper, harder, until the sting that once haunted the cut was simply replaced by fuzzy. A small sting in the center, but fuzzy.

 

And for the first time in a while, he felt alive.


End file.
